


One Year Later

by JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Slash, Three nouns writing prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-12 17:40:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4488678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle/pseuds/JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John have not been in contact for a year after John reacted badly to Sherlock's return. They meet for the first time at a cocktail party hosted by Mycroft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Year Later

**Author's Note:**

> This is taken from the “Take Three Nouns” [writing prompt](http://writingexercises.co.uk/take-three-nouns.php), which I learned about from a Tumblr post by [conversationswithbenedict](http://conversationswithbenedict.tumblr.com/). My three words were loyalty, motorbike and piano.

Sherlock Holmes leaned against the bar, holding his Scotch as though he were contemplating taking a sip. He had maintained the pose for a bit too long; anyone watching would have known that he had all but forgotten the drink in his hand.  
His eyes flitted over the assembled men in their suits (various levels of quality in terms of fabric and cut, but all designed to at least look expensive) and women in their dresses. At this function at least, the women were nearly as uniform as the men: no skirts outrageously short or unfashionably long, colors muted, all of them wearing makeup, and all of it subdued. These were Mycroft’s people, after all.  
Anyone there who knew who Sherlock Holmes was would have assumed he was deducing people, but he wasn’t. He was considering the execrable taste of the pianist who played in the corner of the reception room.  
He went from one Chopin ballade to another, then followed it up with a Chopin etude just to mix it up. The man was a bloody romantic, Sherlock thought, and Mycroft was too, or he would have put a stop to it.  
What Sherlock would give to hear some Bach, the mathematical progression leading clearly from one variation to another. If one had to have something more romantic, some of Brahms later work wasn’t so bad, Sherlock thought. He at least reined in some of the excesses of the earlier Romantic composers.  
Sherlock lifted his glass, about to finally take a sip of the Scotch he had been holding now for at least a quarter of an hour. He had deduced three extramarital affairs and several financial irregularities among the dignitaries at Mycroft’s do. He would finish his drink and leave. There was nothing here of interest to him, and he didn’t understand why Mycroft had wanted him to come, wanted it so much he said he would count it as a favor.  
Sherlock’s hand stopped with the glass halfway to his lips.  
He would know the line of the shoulders and back he spied halfway across the room anywhere. The blond hair was threaded with silver, worn longer than he had seen before and combed back from the forehead. With his back three-quarters towards Sherlock, he couldn’t make out the deep blue eyes, but he had the impression the face was more lined and rugged than the one he recalled. The posture, though, that was the same, military straight, emphasizing the taper from shoulders to waist, the strong hips and thighs.  
“John,” Sherlock whispered, quietly enough that no one would hear it over the piano.  
The suit was new, or at least new to Sherlock. The greyish blue fabric would be devastating with John’s eyes. It was cut to emphasize the strength in John’s compact frame.The way John wore it, the way he actually looked comfortable in his “at ease” position, made it clear that John had worn it before.  
Sherlock caught a quirk at the edge of John’s lips as he grinned, gave a brief nod and shook hands with the woman he had been speaking with. As their conversation ended (had they just made a date? John seemed pleased about something) John turned further away from Sherlock, then stopped as someone else approached.  
Mycroft.  
Sherlock couldn’t see any of John’s face, but Mycroft’s expression was one that Sherlock rarely saw: a smile, and a genuine one at that. Mycroft was happy to see John, maybe a bit surprised that he had come.  
Mycroft’s expression turned smug as his eyes swept over Sherlock. He turned to stand next to John, his left hand coming up to rest on John’s back, below his shoulder blades. Mycroft tilted his head toward John as if to better hear the smaller man, and drew an answering tilt from John, creating a tableau of intimacy. Sherlock suddenly found it difficult to breathe normally. He swallowed his whole drink in a gulp, placed the glass on the bar too hard for good manners and turned to leave.  
Sherlock didn’t know whether it was the glass on the bar or the abruptness of his move towards the door that drew John’s attention, but before he could get out of the room, he felt John’s hand on his arm and heard him say, “Sherlock,” in the low tone that had once meant John wanted his attention.  
Sherlock stopped, straightened to his full height, and turned.  
“John,” he said, a mask of indifference on his face. “I wouldn’t have expected to see you here. You and Mycroft were never … friends … before.”  
“Well, that was before,” John said, an amused tone creeping in. “I could say the same of you. You used to avoid him like the plague. What are you doing at one of his soirees?”  
“I don’t know, but I’m beginning to have my suspicions,” Sherlock said. “Really, John, for someone who values loyalty so much, I am surprised.”  
“What’s that supposed to mean?” The smile slipped from John’s face, and Sherlock noted that the look that was halfway between exasperated and angry took on a new seriousness with the deeper lines.  
“I wouldn’t have thought you would switch sides, John,” Sherlock said, sounding deeply disappointed, even hurt. “How long have you and Mycroft been … close?”  
“Close? What do you mean by that?” Now John just looked confused. “After you came back, Mycroft reached out to me, apologized for his role in what happened, and offered to pull some strings to get me a job that suited better, working with veterans who suffered physical and psychological trauma. He said he thought he owed me some compensation for what I went through. Then a few months ago, he said he could use my help at these periodic gatherings he hosted for people who work for the government. Sometimes he wants me to talk to someone about life in the military, give a first-hand perspective. Sometimes there’s someone who needs to know what it’s really like to work in the NHS. Not that they want to know, necessarily, but they really do need to.”  
John’s shoulders gave a self-deprecating shrug.  
Sherlock stood still, his eyes still on John but his mind spinning, assessing what John had to say. John couldn’t lie; ergo, his statements were true as far as they went. But that didn’t address how John came to be in possession of a bespoke suit, or the way Mycroft had touched him, as though the gesture was as familiar as it was possessive. Mycroft never touched anybody if he didn’t have to.  
“Sherlock?” John had noticed that Sherlock was no longer participating in the conversation. “Sherlock, you ok? Because if we’re done here, I really want to get going. I told Lestrade I’d meet him for a pint, and I want to go home and change first.”  
Sherlock came back to the room he stood in, and he nodded once. Lestrade too? Was John spending time with everyone Sherlock knew, except Sherlock?  
“Yes, of course,” he said. “I’ll let you go.”  
As John turned towards the door, Sherlock took a moment to remember that for John, going “home” no longer meant 221B. He’d already moved out when Sherlock returned a year ago; Mrs. Hudson said that he had tried to stay, but felt haunted by Sherlock’s ghost. He’d never admit it, Mrs. Hudson had told him, but she heard him talking to Sherlock, sometimes yelling at Sherlock, after he had died.  
When Sherlock came back, he found a John that was different from the one he left. He seemed smaller, diminished somehow. The sunny smile and the inappropriate giggles were no longer in evidence, but the anger was. When Sherlock revealed himself, showing up as a patient in John’s examination room at the surgery where he was doing locum work, John had shouted at him (a possibility Sherlock had thought quite likely); punched him (a possibility that Sherlock had thought moderately likely); then curled into a crouch against the wall and cried (a possibility that had never crossed Sherlock’s mind at all).  
Sherlock had left, then tried again at the boring beige bedsit that John moved to. John hadn’t let him in. Through the crack in the door, he had told Sherlock to leave him alone, that he would call the police if he didn’t. He sounded afraid.  
Sherlock never wanted to hear John sound like he feared him again, so he had done what John asked. He went to Mycroft (Mycroft!) for advice; Mycroft suggested taking things slowly, said he would keep an eye on John in the meantime.  
So the months passed, and Sherlock never got back in touch. He wouldn’t be able to take it if John turned him away again. He would occasionally ask Mycroft if he had seen John; Mycroft usually replied in the affirmative, and, in recent months, added that John was looking well. Sherlock had thought that meant that Mycroft had spied on John through the CCTV network, and that “looking well” was a euphemism for “not dead.”  
Wrong.  
As soon as John was out of the room. Sherlock spun around to find Mycroft. It wasn’t hard. His brother had been watching their interaction from a spot by the bar.  
“John Watson,” Sherlock said, walking up and signaling for another drink.  
“Yes, that’s his name,” Mycroft said coolly. “What of him?”  
“What was he doing here tonight?” Sherlock asked. “Was he the reason you wanted me here?”  
“He was here at my invitation,” Mycroft said. “Sometimes people in the Home Office forget that there are actually people who live in this kingdom; it does them some good to talk to one of them. Doctor Watson is admirable representative: a doctor who cares for people, intelligent, at least moderately articulate. People like him.”  
“And by people, you mean you,” Sherlock said. “You touched him!”  
“I may have,” Mycroft acknowledged. “John has become something of a friend over the last few months. I found that once I explained what happened, why our plan was necessary, and apologized for the hurt it caused, he came around in a matter of weeks.”  
“You bought him off with a job and a suit?” Sherlock said.  
“No, I helped connect him with a job that allows him to use his unique skills and experiences to help people in a way that very few could,” Mycroft said. “A job for which he is eminently qualified.”  
“And the suit?”  
“Well, he didn’t want to accept that, but he understood the importance of fitting in at these gatherings,” Mycroft said. “I made him an appointment with my tailor, told him to charge John a few hundred pounds and picked up the balance. I’m not sure if John has any idea how much the suit cost, or if he is maintaining a polite fiction because he knows he couldn’t afford it.”  
Sherlock found himself offended on John’s behalf at the effrontery of that statement, then wondered if he had the right to feel anything on John’s behalf, given that he had made no effort to get in touch with the man. Of course, John had made no effort to get in touch with him either, he reminded himself with a sniff.  
Mycroft seemed to see Sherlock’s train of thought as it traveled across his face and sighed. “I invited you both tonight in hopes you might renew your acquaintance,” Mycroft said. “He misses you, but he’s a proud man.”  
“Yes, well, you saw how it went,” Sherlock said.  
“He seemed happy enough to see you until you started speaking,” Mycroft said. “Even then, he didn’t walk out right away. Did he tell you where he was going?”  
“Not exactly. Just said he was meeting Lestrade for a pint,” Sherlock said.  
“You know where Lestrade’s local is, don’t you?” Mycroft said.  
At Sherlock’s nod, Mycroft continued, “That’s practically an invitation.”  
*************

Sherlock was already seated at a corner table in the pub when John walked in, clad in jeans that were every bit as flattering to his arse as the suit had been and a leather jacket that had definitely not been in John’s wardrobe when Sherlock left. If it had, Sherlock would have burned every other coat John owned so he would have to wear it every day.  
He schooled his features as John looked around the pub, not looking surprised when his eyes settled on Sherlock. He went to the bar and bought a whisky to match the one sitting in front of Sherlock before making his way across the room to join him.  
“So. Fancy meeting you here,” John said, with an unsuccessful effort at a laugh. “Lestrade texted just before I came in. He can’t make it.”  
“No, he didn’t,” Sherlock said. “He was never coming, was he? You just wanted to see if I’d turn up.”  
“What makes you think that?” John asked, without actually denying Sherlock’s statement.  
“Because when you came in, you looked around the pub to see if I was here,” Sherlock said. “If you were here to meet Lestrade, and he let you know he wasn’t coming, there’s a fifty-fifty chance you would have turned around and gone home without coming in at all. This isn’t your local, so chances are slim you would know anyone else in here. If you did come in, you would have gone straight to the bar and pulled up a stool.”  
“Well, you haven’t lost your touch,” John said. Was that affection tinging his smile? “Yeah, I wanted to talk to you away from your brother’s prying eyes.”  
“But why, John? Mycroft gave me to understand that you two were the best of friends,” Sherlock said, suppressing a sneer.  
“Well, no, I wouldn’t go that far,” John said. “We’ve been friendlier than we were in the past. He’s helped me and I try to help him when he asks.”  
“And you let him trot you out like a performing poodle all dressed up like a dancer?” Sherlock asked, not even trying to hide his sneer.  
“No, Sherlock,” John said firmly, exasperated expression firmly on his face. “I show up and share my experiences and express my opinions -- my real experiences and opinions -- to people Mycroft thinks needs to hear them. But I didn’t want to see you to talk about your brother.”  
“He told me he apologized to you for what happened,” Sherlock said.  
“He did,” John said.  
“I’m not going to do that,” Sherlock said. “What we did -- what I did -- saved your life. I’m not going to apologize for that.”  
“I don’t need for you to apologize,” John said. “But I need you to understand what you did to me, not just what you did for me. And I need to apologize to you, for how badly I reacted when you came back. I hope you never thought I wished you really were dead.”  
“No, I didn’t think that,” Sherlock said. “But it seemed like I scared you, and I didn’t understand that.”  
“Scared me? You terrified me,” John said. “You have to understand that when you jumped, when you said goodbye to me and threw the phone away and threw yourself off the roof, I spent two years second-guessing myself, wondering where I went wrong that you thought I might be able to believe you were a fraud, thinking that if I had done something or said something different, you wouldn’t have thought you had to do that.”  
“But John, of course not,” Sherlock said. “How could you have thought it was your fault? I knew you were loyal to me -- how could I not? That’s why I had to do it in front of you. If you thought I was out there somewhere, in danger, nothing would have stopped you from trying to join me. Your very loyalty would have endangered us both. As it was, I almost didn’t return. But having everyone believe in my death was the best thing I could do to keep myself safe, and the way you grieved made everyone believe I was dead.”  
“So me being your dupe made you safe?” John asked, an edge creeping into his voice. “I mean, I know this. Mycroft explained it. But somehow it was easier hearing it from him. I never expected him to trust me.”  
“I did trust you!” Sherlock protested. “I trusted you to care enough to mourn me. But I never expected you to be so affected.”  
“Sherlock, before you left, you were my life,” John said. “You saved me when we moved in together. I wasn’t going to make it. By the time you jumped, I had all but given up working as a doctor to follow you around on cases. I stopped dating. You made everything work. And then you were gone, and so was my life.”  
“So then why were you scared when I came back?” Sherlock asked. “If you had no life -- and please remember that you said that, not me -- why didn’t you want the life we had together again?”  
“Because I couldn’t do that again, Sherlock,” John said. “Because I was starting to find myself again. I was working. I had a place to live. And if I went back to orbiting you like I did before, and you decided to leave again, it would destroy me. I didn’t think I could come back from that again.”  
Sherlock was silent for a moment, not lost in his mind palace, but just contemplating what John had said, what he had once had and what he had lost.  
“Why did you stop dating women?” Sherlock asked suddenly.  
“Because it never worked,” John said. “Whenever I was dating someone, you would demand attention and I’d give it to you and they’d break up with me. And they were right. Do you remember Jeanette? She told me I was a great boyfriend, and that you were a lucky man, right before she walked out. The thing was, she was right.”  
Sherlock looked more confused.  
“So you were dating me, and I didn’t know it?” Sherlock asked. “I wish I hadn’t missed that.”  
“Well, not really,” John said. “Dating usually involves, well, physical affection and sex and things like that.”  
“We could do that,” Sherlock said quickly. Too many times, while he was away, his mind had turned to John, and more and more, he found himself wondering why their relationship had never become physical. John dated women, yes, but John was also attracted to him. That was obvious. It wasn’t until he was away that he understood that he was attracted to John as well. More, he was attached to him. Sentiment. That sentiment had been the only thing to keep him going sometimes.  
Coming home and finding that John did not share that sentiment was worse than some of the things he’d gone through while he was away, but never worse than not having John alive.  
“No, Sherlock, we don’t have to,” John said. “I’m more secure in who I am now. I have a job I love, people treat me like my thoughts mean something. And I know I didn’t miss something and push you off that roof. I don’t need you to offer me a relationship you don’t want to keep me from pushing you away.”  
“Who said I didn’t want it?” Sherlock asked, deliberately letting his eyes fall to John’s mouth before raising them again. “I missed you, John. Not just your reactions to my deductions, or your tea and jumpers. I missed looking up and seeing you look at me like you wanted to devour me. I missed knowing what you looked like without your jumpers on. I’d very much like to see you with nothing on. I thought about being with you in that way, and it was something I hoped would happen when I returned.  
“I didn’t expect you to have suffered so much, or to fall apart when I came back. I’m not sorry for protecting you, but I am sorry for not taking what it would do you into account.”  
While Sherlock was speaking, he slid closer to John on the banquette. By the time he finished, he was close enough to lay one hand on John’s thigh under the table. When John started and looked at Sherlock, he saw an open expression filled with hope.  
“I really want to kiss you, John, but not here,” Sherlock said. “Take me home?”  
“Sure,” John said, not turning his head away. “I’ve got an extra helmet. Ride with me on my motorbike?”

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [Tumblr](http://justlookfrightened.tumblr.com/)!


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